


Croatoan

by a_wake_of_vultures



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse (Supernatural), But the role is reversed, Castiel got sent to the past, Gen, Sad Ending, may be ooc, not Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:02:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22434601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_wake_of_vultures/pseuds/a_wake_of_vultures
Summary: Zachariah never sent Dean to the future. Dean never witnessed the aftermath of the apocalypse.Castiel did. And he couldn't do a thing about it.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 15





	Croatoan

**Author's Note:**

  * For [smolstan](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=smolstan).



> This was my submission for the To Hell + Back Anthology. It didn't make the cut, so here I am posting it as a oneshot. I had a 2000 word limit when editing this, and I tried to expand it a bit, but it doesn't help much. This story will definitely seems rushed.
> 
> First time i wrote this (which is more than a year ago, and not long after I finished watching season 5), it was for a pair of original characters in the Supernatural universe. Don't expect perfect characterization here. It has been edited a few times, and it actually still needs many more. Honestly, the best idea would be to rewrite the whole thing, but I can't. I just feel like I need to post something, and I've always wanted to share this.
> 
> Dean's character is also affected by my terrible headspace at the time, so sorry for the upcoming angst. As usual.
> 
> Suicide warning on the last 3 paragraphs or so, but it's not graphic at all.
> 
> Anyways, enjoy!
> 
> (Please tell me if there's any tag/warning I might've missed!)

Even though Castiel barely remembers what happened, he can tell that something’s wrong. Terribly so, considering the silence in his head and the lack of warmth around him. He knows Zachariah had chanted some ancient Enochian spell at him, but all he could see after that was a blinding light.

It feels like it happened a long time ago. None of them had expected the altercation, but Zachariah was certainly better prepared. There had been a Sunday mass, an entire building full of life, of faith and hope. Now everything is just... empty. He can’t sense a single prayer.

No, not just prayers. He can’t sense even a single, human soul.

_Wait, what?_

He pushes himself up, stumbling slightly over the broken glass, and takes a good look at his surroundings. It’s the exact same church he had met Zachariah at, but everything seems... dead. Or, a premonition of death, like something dangerous was looming above whoever had been living there. Layers of dust over the furniture, various sigils painted on the walls, not to mention the salt lines along the windowsill. There are papers scattered on the altar; upon a closer look, he finds news and pictures with handwritten notes, posters of missing people and marked calendars. One of the benches is pushed against the doors, blocking the only entry, but he could see a devil's trap under it.

And somehow, somehow it just looked so familiar-

Castiel flips through the papers, trying to find some kind of clue. At first glance, there’s no noticeable pattern among the articles, but he can tell they were referring to the beginning of the Apocalypse.

"It wasn’t supposed to happen…”

He doesn't dwell on it and decides on looking for answers instead.

It takes him a while to find the exit, though he managed. He finds the main road just as deserted. Houses and shops abandoned by their owners, cars fallen over, everything just seemed so lifeless. There are large posters and messy graffiti on the walls, which give him a more specific clue on what had happened.

**_'CROATOAN'._ **

He had seen those; he knows Dean had escaped an outbreak himself.

 _Oh._ It’s like waking up from a dream, when he realize what has been missing this whole time. Where’s Dean? The whole town seems empty, but that just doesn't make sense. If everyone’s dead, where are the bodies? If anyone survived, did they leave? Such calamity usually happens around the whole globe; would there really be any place to hide?

An inhuman growl interrupted his thoughts. The source, something that definitely used to be human, stands at the end of the road behind him. As Castiel lifts his angel blade, the creature lets out a loud shriek. Dozen of footsteps follow.

He runs.

* * *

All those zombies, or whatever they are, they might not be so bright, but they sure know how to find their prey.

He had left the town area a while ago, now walking through the woods while still watching his steps. It had gotten way too quiet now, and he couldn't decide if it's a good or a bad thing.

Castiel would rather not think about it and just keep moving.

Which is hard, actually, when a gunshot suddenly rings through the air. The bullet lodged itself into the bark behind him, narrowly missing his ear, yet enough to trigger another roar.

Castiel flicks his gaze to his assailant. It’s a man, crouching on a tree branch at least 15 feet above him, holding a sniper rifle. And he’s smirking.

Then it turns into a full-blown laugh as Castiel something tackles him onto the ground. Or, more like, many things. Hands. Cold, dirty hands.

Croatoans.

It all happened in an instant; there are dozens of those zombies pinning him down. One enemy isn't that hard, but this many—it's just impossible to fight. They aren’t even affected by his punches; they only rip away his weapon with that sick grins on their faces. Castiel takes a sharp intake of breath when something is stabbed through his side. He doesn’t know what it is, but it hurts, probably more than it should’ve. His grace isn't healing him, he can barely feel it at all. The pain dulls after a while, leaving him with a weak pulsing sensation throughout his whole body.

_Is this what dying feels like?_

The croatoans begin to leave, one by one. Now there’s only a few left, hovering over his almost lifeless body, still dropping their own blood into his wounds.

_It's... unfortunate._

He couldn't feel anything anymore.

* * *

When he opens his eyes, he’s still in that same forest. Something is poking his side with what feels like a stick, and it stops when he lets out a groan.

"You should be dead." The voice makes his head hurt, throbbing even worse than before. "Are you sober? Or do you want to eat me, to bleed on me and all that shit?"

The pain begins to creep back into his body, but he can't even scream, not with the barrel of a shotgun against his neck.

It isn't supposed to scare him. But after what happened with the croatoans, who knows what a bullet can do to him?

"... What?"

The stranger, as he recognized, is the same sniper who almost shot him before. Upon hearing his answer, he pulls his shotgun away with a grin. "You're not infected! Not yet, at least. Awesome."

Castiel blinks. The stranger's grin grows wider. "You're coming with me. I’m Dean. And you are?"

He frowns. So that's why it’s so familiar; the devil's trap, the research inside the room, everything made sense now. "Dean... Winchester?" he asked back, almost a whisper.   
The man instantly lifts his gun up, now pointing at his head. Castiel doesn't falter.

"It’s me. Castiel."

A glare, then Dean spins the shotgun in his hands, knocking the grip onto Castiel's head without mercy.

Everything goes black.

* * *

Once he regains his consciousness, Castiel finds himself inside a cold, dark room, with who he'd assume as future Dean sitting on a chair in front of him. The said man looks up, placing his machete on the table, next to the whetstone. There’s an array of knives scattered around him, but that’s not the most intimidating thing about him. No, if Castiel has to pick, he would choose the cold, dead look in Dean’s eyes. It's so... unfamiliar. Unnerving.

"That was fast. What are you, by the way? A shifter? A ghoul, perhaps? James Novak should be long dead, so the former would be more likely."

"Hello, Dean."

"Don't. Don’t look at me like that," Dean shakes his head disapprovingly, "And I'll be the one asking questions here. Who are you?"

"Castiel. I’m an Angel of the Lord."

"Nice try, buddy," Dean cracks his fingers, "Cas's gone. He left years ago."

"I am Castiel," he repeats, "I was sent here, to this timeline—"

"Why?"

... Why, indeed? Zachariah could've done various things—capture him, or drag him back to Heaven, or demand submission. Why send him to the future?

"I... I don't know." Dean doesn’t respond, so he continues, "I do not expect you to believe me, but I'm not a threat."

Dean snorts. “Even if you're really him, I can’t trust you," he snaps, "I've seen crazy, so it’s not hard to believe your story. But that doesn’t mean anything. I don't care who you are. You’re not here to fix this. You’re not here to help. You’re just lost.”

“Dean...”

“Stop.” Dean raises his hand, “I don’t want your pity.” He rises from his seat, retrieving his weapons, “Stay, or leave, do whatever you want. Don’t expect me to care.” He pauses, stopping by the doorway, “In fact, it’s better if you leave. I almost shot you once—I don’t think I’ll miss this time.”

Castiel just has to ask. “But why did you do it?”

“What? Shooting you?” He shrugs, “Just curious. How much do you want to live? ‘Cause some people don’t deserve to be saved.”

"Dean..."

"Doesn't make any difference to you, does it?" he asks, "You didn't even try."

Castiel flinches. "Dean, I would've—"

"It doesn't matter. I prayed to you, Cas, every single night. You never came back."

"... I'm here now."

Dean sighs, his expression solemn. "Yeah... Yeah, you are."

* * *

Castiel wakes to the sound of a gunshot. He rises to his feet almost instantly, his angel blade ready as he waits for the next shot. It never comes; not a sound from his old friend, either. The angel has assumed the worst, until he finds Dean standing in the middle of an empty room, a gun in his hand, smokes from the barrel.

"Oh? You're awake."

The angel frowns. "What are you doing, Dean?"

"Nothing, Cas. Go away."

Castiel enters the room and takes his time to memorize the details. There’s a giant metal table at the corner, caked with blood, along with stacks of books, countless posters and articles covering the wall. Faces crossed out by red markers, lists of names written in black, all of them made his curious, but he wouldn't dare to ask. "Careful, the safety's still off," he reminds instead, gesturing at the firearm in Dean’s hand.

Dean shakes his head. "It's fine." A moment of silence, as his gaze lands on a certain letter taped on the wall beside him, "I—... Just—... Give me a moment alone."

Castiel considers saying yes, but in the end, he refuses. "I don't think that would be wise." He gently closes the door behind him, "What's the matter?"

Dean turns away. "Mind your own damn business."

"I’m concerned about your wellbeing, Dean," Castiel tells him, holding back his sigh, "Please, allow me to help. Tell me what’s wrong."

The silence that comes after, it’s deafening. Dean looks baffled. He loosens his grip around the gun, but not letting go just yet. "... You don't get it, do you?" his voice low, barely a whisper, "Why would you ask that? Everything's wrong!" His voice rises, "I tried, Castiel. I tried to save them. This camp was full of hunters, full of good people. People who fought the good fight with the little things they still had. People who just wanted to _live_." 

Castiel inhales. 

"They fought. They tried. We all tried our best. Guess what happened.”

He's almost afraid to hear the answer.

“Lucifer, wearing my brother… he just snapped his fingers,” Dean cocks his gun, “And it's all over. They all just fell, and I couldn't do a damn thing. Just watched each and all of them bled out in front of me.” A mirthless chuckle, “So tell me, Cas. What do you expect me to do? Just trust you, let you in, and risk going through that all over again? You might be here, but sooner or later they'll pull you back to the past, back to the timeline where you belong. And then what?” he challenges, “I'll still be here, with no lives to save and no monster to kill. With absolutely nothing to live for!”

Dean takes a deep breath, gritting his teeth as he stomps his way towards Castiel, forcefully ripping his angel blade off his hands. "Do you really expect me to survive this? After you returned, giving me this false hope, this illusion of your—of some kind of salvation, some kind of a friend, when we both know that you will leave, again, just like you always did? You really love tearing me apart, don't you? I guess it made sense; angels are all the same. Us humans are just way below you, right?”

"There’s nothing I could’ve done to stop this.”

"And I never needed that!" Dean counters, “I don’t need you for your powers. Did I ever ask you to use your mojo to fix anything? NO!" his voice starts to shake, "I don’t need an angel, I don’t need a goddamn warrior of Heaven! I just need you, period!” He roughly shoves Castiel away, taking slow steps backwards, eyes still staring straight into Castiel. “And you weren’t there, but now you want to force your way in?”

Castiel is, for the first time in millennia of his existence, feels truly, sincerely, scared. Dean still has the angel blade pointed at him, and now, slowly he lifts his gun.

“Please, Dean. Drop the gun. I’m sorry, I’ll listen to everything you have to say. But please, just stop this.”

"No." Dean shakes his head, “I can’t risk it. I can’t live knowing that you’ll be gone, again. We don’t know when they’ll take you back, and I can’t afford to live with that looming over me. I’m done here, Cas. I’ve done more than my own share.”

Castiel gulps, his hands unconsciously reaching out as Dean places the barrel of the gun against the side of his own head.

_"It’s your turn, Cas."_

He pulls the trigger.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback? Do tell me what you feel about this short, short story.
> 
> (maybe one day I'll rewrite this properly. Who knows.)
> 
> Thanks for reading.


End file.
